Rising From the Ashes - epilogue
by chibiMuffin999
Summary: A follow up to Rising From the Ashes. (/s/9051469/1/Rising-from-the-Ashes) JohnXSherlock


John had officially rescinded the 'no Sherlock in the bedroom' policy shortly after their talk on either side of a shower-curtain. Now Sherlock 'slept' (if you could call it that) beside him in his bed almost every night.

John still had nightmares frequently, but the intensity was lessening. Waking up to find that Sherlock was still there, still alive, and usually still awake… Calm grey eyes fixed on him… Knowing Sherlock had been keeping watch, probably quietly nudged him awake before it got too bad to bear… no nightmare could compete with that.

He'd jolt awake several times a night, mouth open as if he'd been screaming to find Sherlock watching him intently, slim hands pressing John back down against his pillow where he'd probably been twisting like a dying fish, screaming his head off about… something. He was fairly sure that he thrashed something awful, though Sherlock never said anything about it. After that first night, Sherlock had stopped asking about the dreams, and begun pretending it was perfectly normal thing for a person to startle up at 2 am shouting. He always maintained a firm grasp on John at night, but seemed perfectly at ease otherwise.

"Ah, John – awake,good. I had been meaning to discuss this case with you. You know I value your input-" Sherlock had started up the other night, as if they were chatting over breakfast, releasing his shaking friend as John worked at catching his breath. He made no mention of whatever Watson had been shouting moments earlier. They'd sat there and talked it through until John's eyes drifted closed again and his answers became vague mumbles. He distantly remembered a blanket being drawn up over him.

He glanced up at Sherlock now, who showed no sign of drowsiness, clicking away on the laptop he was more and more frequently making off with. It was getting late and they'd be completing the ritual of himself falling asleep while Sherlock stared placidly up at the ceiling soon. There were a few things they hadn't discussed yet, and he was aching to. Things he didn't understand. Now was as good a time as any…

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?" a distracted mutter emerged from behind computer, Sherlock's eyes never leaving the screen.

"Are you listening?"

"Why would she- Ah, yes, of course, why didn't I-"

"Sherlock."

"-it makes sense-"

The laptop clacked shut, narrowly avoiding closing over Sherlock's fingers. He eyed John's hand holding the lid down with mild surprise.

"Got your attention yet, have I?"

Sherlock regarded him silently for a few seconds then swiveled and reached out a long arm to set the computer down on a nearby chair.

"You have now." He rolled onto his side more or less pinning John up against the wall in the narrow bed, propping his head up on one hand and fixing interested eyes on his friend who was feeling inexplicably flustered. "You were saying?

"I was- Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"That face. You're doing it again."

"What face?"

"The face you make when- oh never mind."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing. Waiting.

"John?"

"Never mind."

"You're uncomfortable? Interesting… What did I do? I thought I was behaving appropriately…"

"I'm not- I mean I am, but it's not… Why _me_?"

Blank incomprehension.

"What… about you?" Sherlock was picking his words carefully. He never quite knew when he was crossing the invisible line everyone else seemed to see but himself.

"Why… well why is it MY bed you're in right now, for instance?"

"Would you prefer mine?"

"SHERLOCK."

"JOHN."

Sherlock made an exaggerated shrug with a face that clearly said 'I can do that too'.

John rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly. Like talking to a bloody toddler sometimes.

"John -you have no idea how much I hate saying this… " Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his face as best he could with only one arm free. "But I've got no idea what you're going on about. I surmise it's an emotional issue, meaning utterly alien to me. _Sociopath_, John. Walk me through it. Feel free to use small words, if you must."

"Why. Me?"

"Didn't we go round this once?"

_Patience._ John reminded himself._ Patience_

"Why… out of all the people in the world, all the brilliant minds, the beautiful women, the… evil geniuses… why did you settle on me?" The words sounded insecure and more childish in the open than they'd seemed in his head.

Silence.

He hoped maybe Sherlock had zoned out and missed the question, but a glance at his face confirmed he was only processing.

"John…" Sherlock, for the first time since he'd returned from the dead, looked tired. His voice was low and quiet. "I-…." He paused, considering the question further, then rolled onto his back, staring up at nothing; trying to think of how to answer it. It was eerily reminiscent of how he'd looked, sprawled on the pavement that day... John shuddered, a movement not lost on his friend. Sherlock shifted, breaking the illusion, focusing on his folded hands instead. "Sorry."

"Right." John lowered his head onto his arms. He waited a few moments. Apparently that was all the answer he was going to get. He closed his eyes and sighed, rolling away to face the wall. He'd been that way for nearly 10 minutes and was just starting to drift off when Sherlock started talking again.

"It's a complicated thing to pinpoint… I believe I've mapped the events well enough to attempt to explain how I 'settled on' you, if you'd really like to hear it."

John opened his eyes and grunted to indicate he was listening. He was half afraid to move for fear he'd break the detective's concentration.

"John, this is difficult enough as it is. I won't talk to the back of your head." John sat up dutifully, hands in his lap, eyes trained on Sherlock.

"Do you remember, the day we met? I didn't make much note of you aside from my usual list of deductions. I admit I showed off a little. I wanted to intrigue you enough to get you to come see the flat with me. I needed someone to share it with and you seemed unobtrusive enough."

"Well, that's flattering."

"Shut up John, I'm not finished." Sherlock continued mildly.

"In the cab you asked about the phone - how I knew. You succeeded in surprising me that night. There was something sincere about you. I'd impressed you, I could see that, but you neither fawned nor sneered. Honest. There was something honest about you. It was… refreshing."

He stopped there and John thought he was done, but a moment later he was off again.

"I thought at the time we would just be co-workers of a sort. Like Lestrade. I don't much care for the man, but I can work with him. Good policeman, at least compared to the others. Not saying much, but it reflects well enough on him. That night, I thought surely you were flirting with me at the café, and I learnt some time ago not to encourage anyone to become attached me." He laughed a little bitterly. "I hate my own brother. I'm _hardly_ sentimental. Dreadful material for a relationship of any sort." The subdued, implied pain in that statement tore at John, but he didn't dare interrupt. Sherlock's eyes were far away, somewhere, digging through the archives of his mental palace. "And you shot a man for me. Drove out into the middle of nowhere after me, some crazy bastard you'd only just met, and you saved my life…

I didn't really know what to think of it until the whole affair with the Black Lotus. 'The Case of the Blind Banker'- isn't that what you called it on your blog?" John nodded, though Sherlock wasn't remotely looking at him. "When I came back to the flat and you weren't there… and the cipher on the walls… 'dead man'…" he paused to steady his breathing back to its normal placid rate. "I reacted. I didn't analyze. You weren't part of a problem to be solved, you were... You were just John. And you were in trouble. That was the moment I realized you'd become something new to me. Somehow special. I wasn't sure what it all meant, but I was damned if I was going to let them hurt you."

He paused, collecting and organizing memories.

"It was the incident with Moriarty… the first time I saw him face-to-face… by the swimming pool. That was when the word 'friend' occurred to me, oddly enough. Stupid timing, but I couldn't think straight. The only thing I could grasp onto was 'don't let him hurt John.' One wrong move, and you'd go up… and I'd lose the only friend I have ever had…" He rubbed at his eyes with imperceptibly shaking hands and continued. "I shouldn't have let it show. You had a target on your back after that. He knew he could get to me if he got to you." A deep breath to steady himself. "I just couldn't keep calm, couldn't stay distant for a second longer, even after you were out of the jacket, away from the bomb. I wanted to touch you, make sure you were still intact…" He seemed uncertain how to continue.

"I know the feeling." John's voice was soft, but it broke through the uncomfortable silence. He set his hand on Sherlock's shaking ones. Their eyes met for a half second before Sherlock looked away. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

"I had begun to rely on you more than I should have. I realized you were something even more than a friend to me. You were something _much more_ than that. I didn't even bother correcting Mycroft when he called you my 'boyfriend', do you know that? What the hell was I _supposed_ to call you? I didn't have a word for it yet, but the thought of living without you had begun to terrify me. Threatening you got a reaction out of me... I couldn't help but rise to the bait. I half expected you to disappear at any moment for some time after that. Dead or come to your senses and getting the hell away from me before someone tried to put another bullet in you."

John squeezed his hand gently. Sherlock didn't react.

"When I realized where things were heading that night, sitting in the lab at St. Bart's - when I figured out his plan- …I knew I had to keep you out of it. You'd try to help and he'd use you. He'd hurt you to hurt me. I had to get you away from me before he had the chance. I didn't know there was a gunman trailing you until I was already on the roof and if I'd tried to come down... " He leaned his head back against the pillows, lost in the memory. "I figured out the word I'd been after right as I called you...It came to me as I was staring at your name in the speed-dial." He mimed pressing a button then pressed his hands over his eyes again. "Couldn't exactly tell you that then… would've only made things worse if anything went wrong-" He glanced over at John. "-er than expected." John was silent, eyes distant. He didn't want to think about it. "For what it's worth… it was 'love'. I… love you. And I have never loved anyone."

_Love._ Yes, that was the right word for it. This…whatever this was that they had.

"Sherlock…"

"Yes?" He sounded drained.

"… I love you too." Why had that been so damned hard to say until now?

Sherlock smiled. A rare, genuine,smile.

"Come here." He pulled John bodily across the bed, hauling him into a tight hug. This time, John didn't resist. He made himself comfortable, head on Sherlock's chest, arm draped loosely around the skinny detective's waist. Sherlock rested his chin on the top of John's head. For once, both of them slept. Sherlock curled protectively around John.

That night, for the first time since he'd shipped out to war, John Watson didn't dream. The nightmares were gone.


End file.
